unicidades

"21 Things I Want In A Lover" Alanis Morissette Do you derive joy when someone else succeeds? Do you not play dirty when engaged in competition? Do you have a big intellectual capacity but know that it alone does not equate wisdom? Do you see everything as an illusion? But enjoy it even though you are not of it? Are you both masculine and feminine? politically aware? And don't believe in capital punishment? These are 21 things that I want in a lover Not necessarily needs but qualities that I prefer Do you derive joy from diving in and seeing that Loving someone can actually feel like freedom? are you funny? la self-deprecating? like adventure? and have many formed opinions? These are 21 things that I want in a lover Not necessarily needs but qualities that I prefer I figure I can describe it since I have a choice in the matter These are 21 things I choose to choose in a lover I'm in no hurry I could wait forever I'm in no rush cuz I like being solo There are no wo

"Virginia Wolf in A Room of One's Own had a vision that someday young women would have access to the rich forbidden libraries of the men's colleges, their sunken lawns, their vellum, the claret light. She believed that would give young women a mental freedom that must have seemed all the sweeter from where she imagined it: the wrong side of the beadle's staff that had driven her away from the library because she was female." In: The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf, p. 181.

Jason Mraz has written a song for me. And I know the person who's going to sing it and think of me. A Beautiful Mess You've got the best of both worlds You're the kind of girl who can take down a man then lift him back up again You are strong but you're needy, humble but you're greedy Based on your body language and shotty cursive I've been reading Your style is quite selective but your mind is rather reckless Well I guess it just suggests that this is just what happiness is And what a beautiful mess this is It's like picking up trash in dresses Well it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write Kind of turn themselves into knives And don't mind my nerves you can call it fiction Cause I like being submerged in your contradictions dear Cause here we are, here we are Although you were biased I love your advice Your comebacks they're quick and probably have to do with your insecurities There's no shame in being crazy, depending on how you take t

Source: Ilustradores.com se te entregas em mim e eu te quero tudo faz sentido sou poema e tu es trema

I love figures. I love shapes and colors that don’t quite go together. I like to observe nature and how it dances, moves and changes. I wish I had a camera with me when I see flocks of birds dancing and moving around. I wish I could photograph that kind of happiness and harmony. Then I think about Mark Rothko and all of his emptiness and solitude. I like to think about Rothko’s idealism, his works without titles, and his poetry without images. All of that echoing in so many walls, intense colors that can carry you away. I also think about the things he went through and an idea that he once entertained: he didn’t want to have his paintings at the Four Seasons Restaurant in New York because he thought that if someone paid that much for that kind of food, they would never pay attention to his paintings.

I consider myself an explorer. I am very open about music. However, Tina Turner is beyond my musical understanding.

Jackson Pollock.

The New York Times just gets better. I don't know if it's something new or not, but I just found out now. You can look up words directly from their website. A question mark on top of the word sends the reader to a page with the definition of the word. I love it. Although, that doesn't mean that I am going to stop using the define Google tool, which I also love.

Maybe I will never be a real writer. I like writing as a lonely exercise. I like the peace of mind that I encounter while I am writing. I minimize the importance of my surroundings when I write. I embrace my own mind. I create for my thoughts a concrete venue. I explore my own mind. I take a trip with words.

A long time ago.

English, Portuguese, and Spanish.

The Vue by Diego Sanz I was melting, no one knew. The atmosphere was sweet and warm. The sky was dying slowly. Jasmine flowers blooming in his soul, no one knew. My hands were nervous and traveled to untouched places as a means to wait for. The city was flat and busy. Inside each apartment, there was a story being told. Someone waiting for someone, someone else was going somewhere. There was a place for friends to taste life at different levels: people with unique backgrounds and implicit influences, the subtleties of life. You hadn’t crossed my path. I was the girl on the bridge. I was in war. You were behind the camera. Your softness reminds me of a Turner painting. That orange sky you saw, the almost blue-almost purple, that window, the freedom you were photographing: that was all part of me. We were sharing a day at a certain distance that wasn’t that distant after all. Our loneliness was a pending loneliness: a temporary form of idleness. We were like two buildings standing next

My writings in English are always drafts. I know I make mistakes. Still. However, I do express myself in a unique way. I guess that's part of being a "writer", isn't it? I don't understand why someone who doesn't like shopping, all of a sudden goes shopping three evenings in a row and buys a new underwear wardrobe and seven dresses. It must be something that person is drinking. I don't get it. I simply don't get it.

DS.

What is left? What are the memories that you’re carrying with you? Is it the best you have experienced? Is it what really matters? What is it that does matter to you, though? Is it the best suit or the best breeze, is it the best sunrise or the best drink, is it the best empty promise or the real deal? Is it a good book or a good walk? Is it a great idea or a great feeling? What do you need from life? What are you capable of going after? How driven are you? How mental are you? Where’s your heart? What are you missing? Can you grow? Could you fly? If I had died today, probably I would’ve taken with me hope and dreams. I would have left some writings, read and unread books, lots of beautiful multicultural souvenirs, postcards, my interpretation of art, my sense for colors, music, necessary losses, beautiful moments, the taste of the sea, us under the stars. The smell of your hands, the courage that took me to stay, the fears that have held me back, the amazing feeling of having tried lif

There's a moment in life that living vicariously doesn't help, doesn't inspire, it doesn’t do anything for the soul. The soul has to feel and live its own experiences. The soul has to wake up and adjust, and vibrate and explode and be born again, and recollect the memories, remove the scars, lose and find something. The soul has to change the pace of time; it has to encounter its precise moment to bloom. There’s a moment in life that life happens and it happens the right way, with the right people.

Crying doesn't help it. I don't know exactly when I started feeling sad. It happened abruptly. I have reasons to be happy. A good number of reasons, but this morning sadness resonated in a profound way. What kind of person am I? Why do I think I do the wrong things when I like someone? Why do I think that real love is never going to happen to me? Why does my soul feel like it is burning? I hope true love finds its way. I hope that it can see what is behind any mistakes I might have made. I am frightened. Just like Fluffy who hides and trembles when I try to touch him. I hope my fears don’t paralyze me.

For some reason, this book does ring a bell.

I am sure she would have loved if he had brought her a pair of Comme Il Faut. I also believe that they would have danced tango happily ever after.

To see the world differently or the beauty that changes your eyes.

A (new) Milonga / Friday Night Red Walls, Calle Ocho A dream followed by my feet Close embrace , mirrors against the wall White courtains, hardwood floors a glass of wine a brand new dress and a new face fishnet stockings, milonga sentimental An insistent clock humming goodbye songs.

Estou insuportavelmente feliz. Me fazes falta, ainda. Mas estou feliz com o meu hoje e as perspectivas. Estar viva nao doi, lateja em mim tanta vontade, tanto desejo, mas estar viva nao doi. E nao e mundano. O ceu e azul matizado de branco e cheio de passaros que se aninham como podem. Eu me aninho na certeza de ser e estar. E em casa, danco e pulo e corro, para te esperar. Porque sei que chegaras. E eu vou ter ainda mais amor para te dar. Saio agora para o vento frio e a musica. Tem tanto tango dentro de mim. Verdade seja dita, nao tenho que ser argentina para sentir tango. Tenho que ser eu.

Letting it go

Walt z I

I had a brief discussion about love at the library yesterday. At night, when I was leaving my Thursday milonga – which, by the way, sucked – I started thinking about this thing called love . I felt the urge to call a friend of mine, imbued of curiosity and a bit of despair, and ask him: what is love? Please, tell me. Just tell me. Cole Porter also asked (in a song  I love and hum often) himself: What is this thing called love? And who can forget Chet Baker’s voice singing a song by Gene De Paul? The song, whispered by Chet Baker, says: You don’t know what love is/ until you’ve learned/ the meaning of the blues/ until you’ve loved a love/ you’ve had to lose/ you don’t know what love is I am sure there are hundreds, even thousands of songs, poems, books, movies that refer or try to answer the question that has been a constant in my life as far as I can remember. My first poem, when I was six, was about love: my love for my bedroom and the view I had from my window.

A Role Model. In Brazil we had to make do with what we had. It was here in the United States that I learned we could buy new things more comfortably. I also learned that repairing was very costly and that most of the time it just didn't make any sense to do that. My parents were very creative and handy. My dad even built a natural wooden closet for them once. My mom was great at inventing new ways to use and re-use stuff. She was good at "recycling" way before the term was overused or popularized all over. I like that mentality of respecting what someone does by doing what you have learned from them well. It might sound strict, but I think that defines a good teacher. Maybe that is just one of the qualities of a good teacher. I think we need more people like my parents and like the lady from the article. Those people change the world with their hands. Little by little, everyday. Those are the anonymous heroes we need. Maybe I will even find the energy and creativity to le

Puede que hayas nacido en la cara buena del mundo. Yo nací en la cara mala, llevo la marca del Lado Oscuro Jarabe de Palo Source: Nuevo Latino.

The Power of Art by Simon Schama The power of the greatest art is the power to shake us into revelation and rip us from our default mode of seeing. After an encounter with that force, we don't look at a face, a colour, a sky, a body, in quite the same way again. We get fitted with new sight: in-sight. Visions of beauty or a rush of intense pleasure are part of that process, but so too may be shock, pain, desire, pity, even revulsion. That kind of art seems to have rewired our senses. We apprehend the world differently. Source: The Power of Art.

Te procuro de um lugar muito confuso. Sonho que me dou ao luxo de esquecer. Pelo menos por agora. Enquanto construo minha vida feita de dia-a-dia. Num laranja morno e doce.

Let's say that I can describe today's day in one word. I can’t. On the other hand, I feel the urge to do so. I must say that the word is pathetic . I want a brilliant idea that works. I want the serenity of a sunny morning with my feet under the rain. I want to finish my 100-qualities-list a man should have. The sooner, the better. I’d like to do something fun after work. I love to learn new words and to compare lexicons. I was an Akita in my past life. I am positive. I need to study an article. I feel like I am going to be tested on Akitas pretty soon. I want new pictures. Without makeup. Without pretense. How come people are so disgusting? Why do people lie? I want this book: The Disheveled Dictionary: A Curious Caper Through Our Sumptuous Lexicon. I've been reading some things here and there. Those pieces of lives have showed me that I am not the only one with certain problems. It seems like people are the same everywhere. How unique are we? I want your lips, your hands,

Are my dreams on hold?

I listen to a song once. A verse grabs my attention. I fall in love with it. It happens so fast, in the middle of a milonga, with a stranger holding me. I feel the truth of the song. I feel its identity. More than that, I feel how much it’s pertinent. After all, as the song says, we were just two failures that loved each other. The milongas carry a little bit of a Buenos Aires-ish flair that I love. I’m finally coming to a friendly agreement with my very expensive dancing shoes. Now I know what was wrong. I danced an entire class with my Darcos last night for the very first time. They’re actually comfortable and the stability problem was partly solved by my teacher. Then she said I should take them to a shoe repair store to get the other problem fixed, which I did this morning. I love my neighborhood shoe repair store. The guy who works there fixed my fancy shoes in one second and didn’t even charge me for that. He cleaned the other pair, my favorite pair of shoes for dancing, and he’l

Do I hold my dreams or do they hold me?

The new tango.

Image: Counting by Hadley Hooper. Otra Esquina by Otros Aires Composição: Miguel Di Genova En la sospechosa quietud del suburbio Parado en la esquina que me vio nacer Mi barrio testigo de tantos misterios Y amores que nunca pudieron ser. Hay un horizonte durmiendo el Laprida Las luces del alba no quieren prender Hay un par de piernas que buscan comida Yo veo a mi vida pasar como a un tren. Yo me fui a buscar otra esquina Pa` ver la vida pasar Para olvidarme de tu sonrisa Y de tus ojos junto al portal Y después de vivir tantas vidas Mi vida vuelve a comenzar En estas calles, en tu sonrisa En esos bailes de carnaval Otra esquina Una damanjuana, fiestas en el patio Los lentos, la risa, llorar y vivir Y ese corazón dibujado en el árbol Que hoy por un ratito volverá a latir. Quizás este barrio y la noche se asombren Al verme en sus calles mil años después Buscando los restos sin voz, ese antiguo dolor, Esa historia de amor que no fue. Yo me fui a buscar otra esquina...